


Skyline

by TheBookOfWinchester



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Promiscuous Stiles, Russian, Smoking, Stiles Stilinski Gets High, Stiles-centric, and alcohol, and sex, basically just a bunch of shit with weed, calm stiles is a happy stiles, not really healthy habits, really it's just about Stiles calming tf down for once, skyline, sorry he can only achieve this with a fuckton of drugs, stiles is high, the au nobody asked for, when has stiles ever been healthy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 11:18:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11416833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBookOfWinchester/pseuds/TheBookOfWinchester
Summary: Stiles loves the way D.C. looks at night.





	Skyline

Stiles stood stock still at the windowsill, looking out towards the city. It always looked so amazing at night. After what felt like it had been too long, he casually brought his hand up to his face, taking another drag and blowing it out the window in a long and gentle huff. He felt weightless and good. A few years ago, "weightless" was not in the equation. "Good" was not in anyone's vocabulary when asked of their state of being. But now? Right now he had a big wet grin on his face. Sheriff Stilinski was retired and out of harm's way. Scott was almost done with his degree, as was he. Lydia was wrapping things up at MIT. Malia was doing God knows what, but made good money, so….good for her?

    
     Stiles turned to look at the girl in his bed. Sasha was her name. Pretty Russian thing with great style and horrible manners. She was only the most recent of his conquests, but he liked her just fine and they got along very well despite both of their track records. The initial attraction was merely physical, primal. Hot people attract hot people, yeah? They don't love each other, but there's no reason to stop a good thing while the going's good, so here they are - taking turns sitting at 3am just admiring the other's bare sleeping form, smile on their face remembering the night chocked full of adult activities. He took a deep breath, looking back out onto the D.C. skyline. It's funny to him now in a not really funny way that Scott used to be the ladies man between the two of them back in the day and now Stiles is the one with people screaming his name every other night. He's probably gotten more people in his bed in the last month than Scott's gotten his whole life. The city goes to bed so early, there's not much else you can do besides fuck the next name on the list and get high in your apartment. He used to pray for this kind of life back when he was a lonely sixteen year old running for his life.

    
     Running for his life all the time actually paid off in a major way. The constant cardio defined and refined his features, made him angular in just the right way. The constant harrowing escapes and rescues gave him muscle tone he'd only ever hoped for distantly. Once the danger subsided, he became restless. Finally, he realized that he had to burn this energy. ADHD and anxiety be damned. So, he went running every morning, worked out every week. It calmed him first and foremost, but as with everything from before, the side effects of physical fitness did him all the right favors. He'd probably be even better off if he'd lay off the drugs and alcohol, but at this point, he didn't really think it mattered. When he had to, he could sober up in the blink of an eye. All a state of mind for him. Real useful for FBI types like himself. Another side effect of always being blindsided - you're always ready. One time he wrote a term paper while absolutely smashed and was asked by the professor if it could be used as an example for future students of how the assignment should look.

    
     Back to the issue at hand. The skyline was looking particularly gorgeous and he'd forgotten to keep smoking. He emptied his lungs entirely before taking one of the longest breaths he thought he could muster. He paid close attention to the smoke curling through his throat and down into his lungs. He let it burn, let it stay there as long as it liked while he leaned his head back against the sill to become light as air. When it occurred to his altered brain that he should keep breathing to stay awake and enjoy his high, he slowly, so, so, so slowly let a thin trail of a white wisp out before changing the shape of his mouth and blowing rings. It was delightful and he could do it for hours.

    
     As he stood there with the joint between his fingers and the breeze filtering in from outside, he thought about what worry felt like. Right now, he just couldn't remember what that felt like. Concern: he didn't know what it meant. All that mattered was the lights. And girls in his bed. And drugs in his body. And easy A's. And no monsters. Truth be told, whenever he was inebriated, he questioned ever so slightly if the monsters were even real. Maybe he just had some really crazy memories that were never real. He'd always sober up though and remember. They were all real. Every last one of them. He remembers killing people. Dozens of them. So he runs some more, drinks some more, smokes some more, fucks some more. It all does a pretty good job of letting him forget for a while. He's a killer. He's a goofball. He's a lover. He's a fighter. He's everything in between. But, right now, looking out onto the city alone at three in the morning, he's just smoke. He's light and everywhere all at once. He's formless - no face, no arms, no legs. He's not even really there, just an observer. He likes that. Getting to just observe and not have to be in the middle of things. It's nice to just watch sometimes.

    
     Where he lives now, even the biggest problems, normal people can handle them, so they do. When something happens, he gets to just sit and watch someone else do all the saving. It's refreshing. Police sirens wiz past and he just continues on eating his meal at the fancy downtown restaurant. Doesn't even have to bat an eye.

    
     He takes another hit.

   
     Suddenly, arms are snaking their way around his bare torso, feeling up and down. He's not alarmed. It's Sasha.

   
     "Are you going to share with me?" she purrs.

   
     "Do you want me to?" he teases.

   
     Her eyes roll playfully as she rebuts, "Da."

   
     He gives her that lopsided grin before handing the joint to her. Watching her face while she takes her turn. To him it's the most beautiful thing in the world. He'll probably think that about someone else next week, but for right now, all he can see is her. He sneaks his hand up to take the joint from her, which earns a surprised and wicked glare, but before she can protest, his mouth is on hers. In what has to be the hottest thing he's ever witnessed in his life, she held his face and passed smoke from her mouth to his and let him have it. As he took it in, he felt a dangerous spark go flying. He gripped her waist way harder than any well-intentioned man should and dragged her flush against his body like a rag doll. Fortunately, she didn't seem to mind. Almost as aggressively, he tore her head to the side and methodically nipped at her neck just right. The sounds she made turned his high into a whole new one. The sight and sound of her consumed him. And then so did the smoke. Everything felt good. His high was good. The electrified feeling of Sasha beneath his hands felt good. His grades were good, his dad was good, his friends were good. His life was finally good.


End file.
